


we're almost here again

by lalejandra



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Dominance, Future Fic, Impact Play, M/M, Making Out, Post-Split Panic! at the Disco, Safewords, Submission, Vanilla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-07
Updated: 2011-07-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 02:14:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21809662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalejandra/pseuds/lalejandra
Summary: Brendon safewords out of vanilla making out.
Relationships: Spencer Smith/Brendon Urie
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	we're almost here again

  


Brendon lets himself into the house and immediately starts to strip.

"Dude," he calls out, "it is like a hundred degrees out there. Why do we live in LA? Let's move to Siberia."

There's no answer. He leaves a trail of clothes through the living room, his underwear in the dining room, and closes his eyes when he stands in front of the open fridge. He waits a few moments, until most of the sweat evaporates, and then grabs a beer and goes looking for Spencer. The back door is open, and when Brendon peeks out, he sees Spencer standing at the grill.

There is something to be said for running outside naked, but the neighbors hate them enough already -- something about Spencer and the floodlights in the yard, like, two years ago -- so Brendon backs away from the door and leaves the beer on the counter while he runs upstairs for a pair of shorts. He doesn't bother with underwear, just pulls on Spencer's old cutoffs, and lets them hang off the curve of his ass. Spencer fucking loves that shit, when it looks like Brendon's clothes are about to fall off at any second, even though he teases Brendon about it all the time. And Brendon in Spencer's clothes? Oh yeah. After Spencer is done grilling, Brendon is going to drink a lot of beer and then get spectacularly laid.

He picks up his beer and grabs one for Spence before he takes a deep breath and heads back out into the oppressive heat.

"Why are you at the grill, man, it is too hot for this shit," complains Brendon. He hands Spencer the beer, and rolls his own across his forehead.

"Steak," says Spencer, and gestures with the tongs to the giant steaks on his grill. Brendon is expecting a Ron Swanson joke straight out of 2011 about turf and turf, but Spencer just grins at him. "I thought we'd have something nice to eat. Be a little classy."

"Uh-huh." Brendon raises his eyebrows.

"Whatever, you don't have to eat it," Spencer tells him, and takes a long drink of beer. All his visible skin is pink, from the sun, from the heat, and he's glistening with sweat. It's too damn hot to be outside. Even the dogs aren't running around; they're laying all smushed together under one of the pool chairs, in shade that can't possibly actually be cool.

"Whatever, I'll totally eat your meat," replies Brendon, waggling his eyebrows, and then he dodges the tongs stabbed in his direction. "Seriously, though, I'm gonna go turn down the air conditioning and sit in front of a fan or something."

"You're home early." Spencer glances over at him. "Everything okay?"

Brendon flaps a hand in the air and shakes his head. "I hate the song still, but I'm only home because the air at the studio broke, and I thought I was going to fucking melt or something. They said not to come back until probably Monday, but they'll call us if it's fixed earlier."

Spence nods. "Go then," he says, but then when Brendon turns, he feels Spencer grab the shorts, thread his fingers through one of the loops, and pull. Brendon spins into Spencer, and might as well have come out naked, since TMZ would probably pay so much more for the picture someone with a camera phone could get right now. Spencer and Brendon making out, their bodies plastered together, sweat dripping off their bodies. The loose cutoff shorts Brendon's wearing definitely don't hide anything as he gets hard and presses against Spencer, and Spencer's only wearing swimming trunks; they have to be totally obscene. Brendon shudders thinking about it, and presses closer to Spencer, feeling their skin slide, slick with sweat from the heat of the day and the heat of the grill.

Brendon drops his head back to catch his breath, and feels Spencer untwist his fingers from the back of the shorts, dipping one under the waistband quickly, then pulling away. He pats Brendon's ass.

"Okay, now you can go," he says, and Brendon comes closer again to press a quick kiss against his mouth.

From the doorway, he whistles for the dogs, and they take their time coming up the deck stairs. Brendon fills their water dishes and realizes he left his beer on the ledge by the grill. Spencer will drink it. He pulls another out of the fridge and wanders back into the living room.

The shades are up, because Brendon and Spencer pretty much only ever pull them down when they're _doing stuff_ in the living room. Being kinky. Whatever. But it means that the afternoon sun shines through the curtains, heating up the room, fighting the central air. Brendon stands in the middle of the living room, in the exact right place to feel the drift of the cold central air circulating, and stares at them. Spence is making steaks, they have beer, they have way more time today than they've have all week, and probably they'll go back to having no time next week when they get into the studio for real and start laying down tracks for actual songs instead of demo versions.

Brendon could pull down the shades.

He's hard, and he wants it, and his skin is singing, waiting for Spencer to come touch him. It's been a few weeks since they played -- not for any reason, sometimes it just happens that way, but...

He sucks on his upper lip and thinks about it, but before he can make a decision, Spencer is banging in.

"Two medium rare steaks, the finest in the land," calls Spencer from the kitchen.

"All you need now is a cigar and some whisky, Mr. Swanson," replies Brendon, and heads to the kitchen without touching the shades.

*

They end up, later that night, as they almost always do, sprawled on the couch, pressed against each other, watching shit on Netflix. Sometimes Brendon kicks Spencer's ass at whichever video game they feel like playing, but mostly they usually just wind down together, dogs at their feet, like an old married couple. Brendon is into it; he likes the way it feels, like they have a routine and different ways to enjoy each other, that they don't always have to be _doing_ something.

Brendon never thought, growing up, that there would be anyone in the world who would just enjoy his company, listen to his stupid commentary on tv shows, laugh at his dumb jokes, and not tell him to shut up or push him away or -- or whatever. Whatever, but it's Brendon's now, it's Brendon's life and it's really fucking awesome.

"Hey," he says to Spencer, turning away from the flickering show that he's not even watching. "Hey."

"Hey," replies Spencer, and he turns away from the show, too, but doesn't stop tracing patterns on Brendon's back with his fingernail. He leans down a little, Brendon leans up.

"I kind of miss the beard," Brendon says into his mouth.

"The whole time I had the beard, you told me you missed the baby face." Spencer's smiling against Brendon, so Brendon licks the upturned corners of his lips, bites his bottom lip.

"The grass is always greener," he says mournfully, and shrieks when Spencer tickles him. "Foul!"

"You love it," says Spencer, and resettles a little underneath Brendon, pulling Brendon all the way on top of him, so Brendon is straddling him, their stomachs touching. Brendon forgoes more kissing for tucking his head into Spencer's neck and sucking on it, feeling Spencer shudder under him.

"I do love it," Brendon says belatedly. "I love you."

He waits. Sometimes Spencer doesn't say it back. Years and years, and sometimes Spencer still is cautious about saying it, as if saying he loves Brendon is going to... jinx them. Or something. Whatever, Brendon has his own superstitions, he's not going to make fun of Spencer's. But he does like to hear it.

Spencer doesn't say it back this time, just moves his head until he can kiss Brendon, and that will have to do for now.

They make out until the show stops, and Spencer flails for the remote to click off the tv. The sun is almost set, the living room is almost dark -- except for the neighbors' floodlights, and Brendon knows that if he doesn't distract Spencer, they might end up having a bitchfest about the neighbors and their light pollution instead of sex. He grinds down onto Spencer's dick, feeling the zipper of the shorts cut into his own skin, listens to Spencer's gasp. Brendon reaches down and flicks open the buttons on the shorts, moves down the zipper, tugs down Spencer's swim trunks. The few beers he'd drank buzz pleasantly under his skin, meshing with Spencer's fingernails dragging over his ass.

Spencer wriggles around to help him, and ends up bucking up into Brendon, putting incredible pressure on his dick. He whines without meaning to, and falls back over Spencer, kissing him hard, letting their dicks rub together. "I love you," he whispers to Spencer's lips between kisses. "I love you."

Their dicks are getting wetter and wetter, and Spencer moans under him, hands tight on his waist, mouth open. Usually Brendon loves sharing air, but -- not tonight. His chest feels tight, like he's not breathing, and he realizes that it's because he's _not_ breathing, and he doesn't even -- he's not even turned on anymore, and the pain where Spencer's hands are digging into his skin is just pain, it just hurts.

"Wait," he says, except nothing comes out of his mouth, and Spencer must just think he's kissing weird, because he keeps going and going and Brendon can't breathe anymore, can't see anything except his skin pressed against Spencer's skin, can't --

He jerks away from Spencer and rolls away, rolls right off the couch and lands on the floor, slams into the coffee table stacked with their empties and the dirty plates that they'd let the dogs lick. Brendon gasps from the pain of hitting his ribs into the corner of the table, and is glad for it, because it means he can breathe again.

"Bren?" Spencer leans up on one elbow, and then moves like he's going to come over, like he's going to -- to touch Brendon, to do something to --

Brendon holds up a hand to stop him, ward him off, keep him away.

"Brendon, seriously --"

He's dragging in huge gasps of air, but manages to get the word out. "Sinatra," he says on exhale. And then again, and again, and again, it's the only word he can say. "Sinatra, Sinatra, Sinat --"

"Yeah, got it," says Spencer. He jumps over the back of the couch instead of coming near Brendon, and goes to the wall, turns the lights up until they're almost too bright. He stays over by the light switch -- in the corner, near the foyer. He stays there and stares at Brendon, who doesn't move from his sprawl on the floor, shorts falling off.

He's really cold all of a sudden, and shivering.

"Can you," he starts, and his voice cracks. He clears his throat, starts again. "Can you, uh. Pull down the shades, please?"

Spencer just keeps watching him, arms crossed over his chest, and suddenly he's not the nice, easygoing dude Brendon's in love with who cooks him steaks and teases him about shaving his chest and pounds the shit out of the drums in their band. His face gets hard and he starts breathing through his nose, and Brendon _watches_ the change, and irrationally starts to feel better. Brendon has no clue what's going through Spencer's head, which is fucking fair, since he also has no clue what's going through his own. But he wants -- he wants something more structured right now, he wants to...

Fuck, he wants to know where he fits into Spencer's life if Spencer isn't going to say "I love you" tonight.

Whatever Spencer sees must make sense to him, because he turns to start pulling down shades, and by the time he's worked his way around all the windows in the living room, Brendon pulls himself away from the table and stripped off the shorts. He shuts his eyes and doesn't watch Spencer finish the shades. He just tucks his knees under him so he's kneeling, and then slowly leans back a little so he can hold on to his own ankles. He's always liked this position -- it's easy to stay in for long periods of time, and he likes being able to hold on to himself, and he likes the way his back arches over his ass and feet, the way his chest puffs out. And he can tilt his head back like this and it doesn't hurt that much. He's always liked the way Spencer's looked at him when he's showing his throat, hungry and possessive.

That's what he wants right now. He's frantically trying to sort through what's in his brain, trying to figure out why he's freaking out -- Spencer almost never says "I love you," but Brendon knows he does, and that's fucking enough. Most days. Most days that's enough. Clearly not today. And even as Brendon's thinking about it, he can feel himself settling into the position; his body knows what's going on, even if his conscious mind is still freaking out.

"How's my boy doing?" asks Spencer in a low voice. He's still across the room, near the dogs' crate, where they're settled in for the night.

Brendon lets out a breath and says, "Please," because he knows better than to say anything else when he's on his knees. Please and Spencer and his safe word, that's all he's allowed to say when he's like this. He can't -- he can't say "I love you" and hear nothing back. Everything Spencer does when Brendon sits like this says it, every single thing.

"Please," Brendon repeats, and he keeps saying it until Spencer comes over to him and runs a hand through his hair. Spencer stands behind him, kneels down, lets Brendon's head rest on his chest, and keeps a hand in his hair. His other hand goes to Brendon's throat, just like Brendon had hoped it would. Over his voice box, pushing a little, squeezing a little, enough so Brendon's breathing has to stay slow and even. Brendon flashes back to the first time Spencer cut him -- it was so much like this, Spencer holding him, back to front, the scalpel cutting lines into the side of his thigh while Brendon sagged against Spencer and let Spencer hold him up and hold him still.

Brendon doesn't know how long they stay like that -- long enough for the knots inside his chest and the awful nausea filling his stomach to disappear. Long enough for him to start to feel warm again. Slowly, the world starts to tilt back into its correct position, and Brendon starts to come back.

He relaxes into Spencer, into the hand in his hair, into the hand on his throat; he lets Spencer take more of his weight. He doesn't open his eyes, though. Can't.

"There you are," says Spencer, and then he keeps talking, but Brendon can't focus on it, just hears the soothing tone, feels the vibrations right at the top of his head. He tunes in when Spencer says, "Okay, this way," and starts to move.

Spencer starts with Brendon's arms, moving them, rubbing his shoulders, and then pushes Brendon forward, rubs his back. It hurts when Spencer runs his hand over where Brendon fell against the table, and Brendon hisses in a breath before Spencer lifts his hands. Spencer rubs his hips -- Brendon's not cramping, but it feels nice; he won't complain -- then stands him up. Brendon stays standing, eyes closed, as Spencer turns him -- probably toward the stairs.

Then Brendon feels Spencer's hands come up to cover his eyes. That's something they haven't done in a long time -- a really long time. Years, at least. Spencer has this thing about Brendon watching, seeing, staying in the moment, checking in, keeping his eyes open, and Brendon's okay with that -- now. After a lot of practice.

Brendon's chest is caving in. Spencer must think -- Brendon doesn't know what Spencer must think. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Spence, I'm sorry, I --"

"Quiet," Spencer says. "Walk with me, please." And Spencer leads from behind, nudging in the right direction. "Stairs." And Brendon walks up the stairs without looking. His whole chest hurts, and the nausea is back, because Spencer must think Brendon is really fucked up if he's blindfolding Brendon with his hands. Maybe Brendon fucked this up really bad; he's felt this shitty only a couple of times in their relationship, and --

He hopes Spencer isn't going to leave. Brendon can be better, do better, push the shit aside and get back down to -- he -- he can. He can do it. He can do it.

"I know you can do it," Spencer says softly. "Come on, I know you can do it. Just a few more steps -- and now we're in the hall, don't step up again."

"That's not --"

"No talking now," Spencer says firmly. They're not turning into their bedroom -- Spencer's taking him to the play room. They almost never use it anymore, preferring their bedroom or the living room, sometimes the kitchen, sometimes the tiny soundproofed studio downstairs where they practice early in the morning.

Spencer lets go of him to close the door, and then he pushes Brendon against it, tightens cuffs around Brendon's wrists and ankles. He's not going to leave -- he'd never tie Brendon up and leave him alone. Brendon lets out a long sigh of relief and slumps against the door.

"You are such a good boy," Spencer tells him. "You're so good. I don't know what's wrong or what happened down there, but it's not because you're bad, okay? You're good. You get a present." There's no warning, no sound in the air, just a loud _crack_ and then fire on Brendon's ass, so much fire -- again and again and again, until Brendon's knees are bending involuntarily and he's holding onto the chains looped around the door to hold the cuffs there. With every crack, Brendon shudders against the door, and he can't even count or figure out the pattern or think -- or anything.

He gives up, lets the belt take him away, keeps his eyes closed against the sweat rolling down from his hair. And Spencer doesn't stop.

Spencer's never going to stop, Brendon reminds himself, and it's the only thing he keeps in his mind -- Spencer's never going to stop. Spencer's never going to leave.

Then he realizes that it's in his head because Spencer's saying it out loud, before every slap of the belt.

"I'm never going to stop, Brendon," he says. Crack. "I'm never going to leave." Crack. "I'm always going to be here for you." Crack. "You'll always have me."

Every crack of the belt against Brendon's skin sounds like Spencer saying, "I love you," until Brendon is crying from it, banging his head into the door, banging his fists.

When the belt stops, all Brendon can hear is his own sobbing, and he sort of vaguely feels like he should be embarrassed, but he can't quite get there, because he feels so _good_.

*

Spencer likes it when Brendon says what he wants. Not just because he likes to communicate -- and it can be hot, Brendon can admit it, listing what he wants to do to Spencer, what he wants Spencer to do to him. But Spencer also likes it, Brendon knows, because he likes seeing how embarrassed Brendon gets, how much he blushes, how he has to fight against feeling stupid. It's like, for Spencer, it's Brendon showing over and over how much he trusts Spencer.

So once they are in bed, Brendon curled into Spencer's side -- not on his back; he's not going to sit right for _days_ , but at least he's not panicking anymore -- and tells Spencer what he wants.

"I need you to tell me you love me," Brendon says into Spencer's neck.

"I love you," Spencer says immediately, and the hand on Brendon's neck tightens painfully. Brendon wants to melt into Spencer and fall asleep, but he fights it.

"No, I mean -- more. More often. A lot." He dares a look at Spencer's face, but the blackout curtains mean he can't see anything. He slides his hand up Spencer's chest, over his throat, rubs against the bristles of the new beard starting that Spencer will shave off in the morning, cup of coffee on the back of the toilet, squinting at himself in the mirror. He touches Spencer's face all over, but doesn't feel anything -- until Spencer opens his mouth and nips Brendon's fingers.

"I can do that," Spencer says slowly, finally, after too long. "I can try to do that."

"Yeah?"

Spencer doesn't answer the question, asks one of his own instead. "Is that what happened downstairs?"

It's Brendon's turn to not answer. He hums instead.

"Yeah." Spencer sighs. "Fuck, Brendon. I feel pretty shitty. I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry," says Brendon quickly. "My fault."

"Nope, my fault. Both our faults," Spencer amends when Brendon flicks his lip. "Whatever. I'll try to do it. But you --"

"Me," prompts Brendon, when Spencer doesn't speak for a few moments.

"You can't let it get so bad next time." His voice is so low that Brendon can barely hear him. He lifts his head up a little. Spencer continues, "You have to tell me, okay? Don't let it get so bad that you have to safeword out of _making out_ , Bren."

"I'll try to do it," Brendon parrots, and laughs a little when Spencer slaps the back of his head. "I will, I promise."

"Okay," says Spencer. He settles his hand back onto the back of Brendon's neck, holding too tight for comfort. Brendon loves it.

"I love you," Brendon says. A test.

Spencer lets go of his neck again and tugs Brendon's hair -- not hard, but enough. "I love you, too," he says fondly.

  



End file.
